


the best medicine

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:46:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Joly took care of his friends, and one time they took care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Should I call Joly?" Enjolras asked, fingers already hovering over his phone.
> 
> Combeferre hesitated. Joly was probably sleeping already, since he had to get up at five for clinicals most mornings. It would be cruel to drag him out of bed and across the frozen campus to the south-side dorms.
> 
> But Combeferre was starting to feel a little worried; this didn't feel like a normal post-Hell-Week cold. Joly's caring, capable manner would be so nice right now--and Combeferre felt too miserable to be unselfish.

Every semester, about two weeks before the end, there was that one week that was the Week From Hell. Somehow, regardless of what classes he was taking, the workload cycles came in sync with each other, and he would end up with two research papers, a group project, and interview project, and an exam all due in a single week. Combeferre always tried to look ahead and find it--sometimes he even graphed out the assignments as soon as he got the syllabuses, earning him laughter from Courfeyrac--but even when he did, it didn't do any good. He tried to work ahead, but things came up, or he changed his paper topic at the last minute, or the professor shuffled things around; and sometimes, when you were carrying 21 credits, you just _couldn't_ work ahead. Eventually, he came to accept it as inevitable--just part of being a triple major.

And if that was the case, then he had to accept getting sick the week _after_ the Week From Hell as another inevitable consequence of not being able to choose between Philosophy, Physics, and Political Science. If he was going to push himself to his absolute physical limits, running on two hours of sleep a night and consuming nothing but ramen and baby carrots and about a gallon of energy drink for a week, then his body was going to crash. There was just no way around it.

So he wasn't surprised when he woke up from his first real nap in eight days to find his head pounding and his throat raw. He'd felt kind of sick earlier that morning, but seeing as he'd just turned in his third (and final, thank God) 20-page paper of the week (he'd finished typing it in a computer lab five minutes before class started), he'd optimistically attributed it to sleep deprivation and told himself he'd sleep it off. Now that he'd had a good few hours of sleep--he wasn't sure how long, but he'd passed out on his bunk around noon and it was now dark outside--it was harder to be optimistic about it.

Still, he made a valiant effort. You always felt lousy when you slept at weird times, Combeferre told himself. He pushed himself up and groaned as the throbbing in his head intensified. He waited a few minutes, his head propped up on his knees, for the room to stop spinning a bit, before daring to climb down.

He fumbled around on his desk and found his phone, wincing as the bright light of the screen hit his eyes. 12:48. He'd slept for nearly thirteen hours. He felt like he climb back into bed and do another thirteen, easy--only he was maddeningly thirsty. And the only liquid in the room was a half-drunk can of Red Bull from an indeterminate number of days ago.

Even with his eyes shut to tiny slits, the fluorescent lights of the hallway screamed like sirens at Combeferre's pounding head. He shuffled down the hall to the water fountain, feeling his way along the wall because he was unwilling to open his eyes farther. The cold water from the faucet helped his parched tongue, but it just made his throat ache worse.

Back in his room, he rummaged around for hot beverage mixes or teabags, but came up with nothing; the brutal past two weeks had ravaged his and Enjolras's stash of emergency foods and drinks, and the tupperware tea chest was empty. So, it turned out, was the bottle of asprin in the first-aid kit. Desperate for _something_ to soothe his throat, Combeferre grabbed his mug anyway and headed off to the dorm kitchen. If he couldn't beg a teabag or some honey or something off of someone, he would just drink hot water. Apparently, he had seriously overestimated his energy; halfway there, his head started spinning and he had to lean on the wall for a few seconds, eyes closed, until he felt more steady. He was shivering, too, though he'd been overheated when he woke up.

Combeferre was surprised to find a small study party in the lounge; it was only Thursday, he realized, and even though his own personal Hell Week was over, others had assignments due on Friday. (He did too, as a matter of fact, but it was only German homework and he could do it in the morning, if he had stopped feeling like he might keel over at any moment by then.) And Enjolras had moved his own studying out of their room so Combeferre could sleep; Feuilly must have come by to discuss their history assignment, and that was apparently enough critical mass to draw Courfeyrac, who always preferred to study with other people.

"Hey!" Courfeyrac greeted him, looking up from his textbook. Enjolras, sprawled over the other end of the couch, their legs tangled together, waved a highlighter. "Did you get the paper done?"

Combeferre attempted a smile. "Yeah. I turned it in and then I slept for thirteen hours straight," he croaked.

Feuilly's eyebrows shot up. "You sound awful. Are you okay?"

"I don't feel great," Combeferre admitted. "I think I'm getting sick."

"Do you need anything?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Um. I was looking for . . ." Combeferre trailed off, forgetting for a minute why he'd come down to the lounge at all. The mug in his hands reminded him. "Tea. Do you have any?"

"Sorry," Courfeyrac said. "I don't like it, so I gave away everything my aunt sent me already."

"I've got some back in my room," Feuilly offered, sitting up and looking around for his shoes.

"You live on the other end of campus," Combeferre protested. "It's fine. I was just going to make hot water. I just need something hot, my throat is killing me."

"You can't just drink hot water," Courfeyrac said, scandalized. "We'll find you something; I'm sure someone on this floor has tea. Or will hot chocolate do?"

"Hot chocolate would be great." Things went fuzzy again suddenly, and Combeferre shut his eyes, reaching out for the doorframe. For a minute he focused just on standing still and waiting for things to be normal again.

"Ferre!" From Enjolras's tone, it sounded like this wasn't the first time he'd said his name. Combeferre opened his eyes to see the room standing still and Enjolras on his feet.

"I'm okay." It came out quieter than he intended, but when he repeated it, louder, the effort made his throat hurt so badly tears sprang to his eyes. "Just a little dizzy," he explained, going back to a whisper since Enjolras was right next to him anyway. "I'm still waking up."

"Come sit down," Enjolras demanded. He took Combeferre by the elbow and pulled him over to the couch, where Courfeyrac swept a jumble of sweatshirts and textbooks aside to make room for him. Combeferre sat down gratefully and leaned his head back on the fake leather. Enjolras felt Combeferre's forehead, and the chill of his fingers sent a shiver down Combeferre's spine.

"I don't know, you feel really hot to me," Enjolras said.

"You always have cold hands," Combeferre whispered.

"Courf, you try."

Courfeyrac's hand felt just as cool as Enjolras's against Combeferre's burning skin. Courfeyrac pressed the palm of his hand to Combeferre's forehead, then to his own head, then to Feuilly's head. "You definitely have a fever, Ferre," he said.

Combeferre nodded. "I thought so."

"It looks like your glands might be swollen," Feuilly put in. "I don't remember what that means, though."

"Should I call Joly?" Enjolras asked, fingers already hovering over his phone.

Combeferre hesitated. Joly was probably sleeping already, since he had to get up at five for clinicals most mornings. It would be cruel to drag him out of bed and across the frozen campus to the south-side dorms.

But Combeferre was starting to feel a little worried; this didn't feel like a normal post-Hell-Week cold. Joly's caring, capable manner would be so nice right now--and Combeferre felt too miserable to be unselfish. "Can you, please?" he asked.

Enjolras nodded and patted Combeferre on the shoulder before walking over to the window where he might have a chance of getting decent service.

"Do you still want that hot chocolate?" Courfeyrac asked. "I'm ninety-two percent positive I have some in my room."

"Um. I don't know." Despite having just slept for thirteen hours, Combeferre found himself exhausted again. Everything ached, and he didn't know what he wanted.

"How about a blanket?"

Yes, Combeferre realized, that was what he most wanted. He nodded. "Yes, please."

Courfeyrac vaulted over the arm of the couch and padded down the hallway in stocking feet toward his room. Combeferre closed his eyes and pulled his feet up, leaning his head on the arm of the couch. A minute later, Courfeyrac laid a fleece blanket over him, tucking it in around his feet.

"I bought the hot chocolate down, in case you change your mind," he told him. "I have some vitamin C if you want it, too."

"That's a scam," Enjolras pointed out. "Those things have like twenty times what you actually need, and most people get that from their food anyway, so all it gives you is really expensive urine."

"Lovely," Feuilly said dryly.

"He's been eating nothing but ramen for a week," Courfeyrac pointed out. "He probably has a vitamin C deficit- _-can_ you have a vitamin C deficit? Anyway, it's the kind you make with hot water, I thought it might be good for his throat--like the lemon and honey thing."

Joly arrived a few minutes later, stamping the snow off his boots and excitedly annoucing that it was nearly three inches deep by now. Combeferre noticed guiltily, as he pushed himself up to something resembling sitting upright, that Joly was wearing his glasses, which meant he'd already taken his contacts out for bed.

"I'm sorry," Combeferre mumbled. "You were asleep, weren't you?"

"No, I wasn't asleep yet," Joly said, convincing nobody. He shrugged out of his coat, revealing pajama pants with ice-skating penguins on them and an old Star Wars T-shirt two sizes too large. "Don't worry about it, I don't mind." And there was the other side of Joly being such a terrible liar--you knew when he was telling the truth.

"So--how do you feel?" Joly asked, kneeling down in front of the couch.

"I have a sore throat and my head is killing me," Combeferre said. "And I'm kind of achy all over."

Joly felt his forehead, his slim fingers deliciously cool against Combeferre's skin. "You definitely have a fever, so that explains the aches. Let's see how high." He opened his bag and dug around in it for the thermometer. "Open up, please."

While the thermometer beeped periodically in Combeferre's mouth, Joly went through the rest of his bag. "I brought tea, since Enjolras said you didn't have any--I have that orange spice tea, which is really nice, some regular black decaf, and this other stuff that tastes like pepper and liccorice. It's really good, but don't put any sugar in it until you taste it, the liccorice root makes it naturally sweet."

"Oh, I've had that kind," Feuilly put in, looking up from his economics reading. "It's weird, but I like it."

"Isn't it? You should try it too, Enj, I think you'd like it." Joly turned back to the bag and pulled out two cans. "I also brought soup, because soup is important when you're sick. Actually, I read something that said it really _is_ important--something in chicken, specifically, helps your immune system or something--so maybe there's a reason for that tradition. Either way, you have a choice, this one is chicken with stars, and this one is regular chicken noodle. They're the condensed kind, but I'm assuming someone here has a saucepan?"

Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked at each other blankly. "Um . . . I have a cookie sheet?" Courfeyrac offered.

"Well, actually, you can make it in a mug, too," Joly went on, unperturbed. "I've done it before, it's easy. It just takes some trial and error to get the proportions right, but it's really no different--" The thermometer went off, and Combeferre handed it to Joly. "--from cooking it on the stove. One hundred and two point one--that's high, but not _high_ high. Did you take anything for it yet?"

"No, we were out of asprin, too," Combeferre admitted. "We're not very good at this."

"I bought Tylenol, but it's the chewable kind, so it's tastes like grape chalk and you need to take about six of them to equal an adult dose, I hope that's okay," Joly said, then laughed at Combeferre's attempt to school his face into bland acquiescence. "No, don't worry, I have regular adult medicine." He showed Combeferre the bottle of advil. "It's just kids' vitamins that I get--because they're probably unnecessary anyway, they should be with a decent diet, so I might as well take the ones shaped like Flinstones. Which, by the way, I brought some of them as well, because I'm guessing you've been living off of ramen for the past five days?"

"Eight," Enjolras corrected.

"I eat carrots, too," Combeferre protested weakly, as Courfeyrac handed him his mug full of water from the kitchen. "And . . . um . . . bananas."

"Good, good for you," Joly said, passing him two caplets. "That's excellent; your immune system needs those vitamins."

Combeferre swallowed the pills and was dismayed to find that even the simple act of swallowing a mouthful of water was intensely painful. "A lot of good it did me," he groaned.

Joly patted him on the shoulder. "Just think how much worse you'd feel if you _hadn't_ been eating all those fruits and vegetables," he said cheerfully. He sat back on his heels. "Enjolras said you were also feeling lightheaded?"

"Just a little," Combeferre said. "I think I maybe just got up too quickly."

"You looked like you were going to pass out," Courfeyrac put in. Combeferre made a face that he hoped expressed how much Courfeyrac was exaggerating (and not how much his head was still hurting).

Joly looked between the two of them. "Well, I guess keep an eye out, and as long as you don't continue feeling lightheaded, it's nothing to worry about. But if it happens again, you let me know, okay?" He turned his attention to Combeferre's face, gently feeling along his jawline. Combeferre winced as his fingers ran over an area he hadn't even realized was tender.

"Your lymph nodes are definitely swollen," Joly reported. "Which basically just means you have an illness of some kind, there's literally a whole list of things that can cause this. Let's see your tonsils--open up?"

Combeferre _ah_ 'ed obediently, and Joly squinted down his throat. "It doesn't look like your tonsils are swollen," he decided. "Which means tonsilitis and mono are less likely. I'm guessing this is just the flu or an upper respiratory infection. You'll probably feel pretty lousy for a few days, and then you'll start feeling better, although it may take a week or so to get over completely, like with a cold. It's just hitting you like a cement mixer because you sort of didn't sleep for a week."

"I know, it's stupid." Now that Joly had told him it was just a normal cold and not something strange and dangerous, Combeferre felt embarassed about the whole thing.

Joly shrugged. "It's a choice you made. I mean, I feel like this is the part where I'm supposed to tell you that you can't do that anymore because you'll destroy your body and nothing is worth giving up your health . . . but I'm a nursing student. I can't fault you for making a decision that I've pretty much made, myself, as well."

"Yeah, but now my bad choices are affecting you--I mean, I got you out of bed in the middle of the night. . ." Combeferre his cheeks getting even warmer than they already were. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Joly said, squeezing his hand. "This is whyI'm a nursing major--I _like_ taking care of people."

"Well, you picked the right major," Combeferre told him. "You're good at it."

Joly's cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Thanks." Digging in his bag again, he pulled out an old sour cream container, which he lined up on the carpet along with the other things he'd brought. "Okay, so this is the vitamins, and I'm leaving you the ibuprofen since you're probably going to need more in the morning. And you've got the soup, and the tea--and by the way, there's like six seasons of Mythbusters on Netflix streaming right now, so you're all set for a long weekend in bed. But really, your first priority should be sleep. Sleep and fluids, you know the drill."

Combeferre nodded. "Thanks again," he said.

"Anytime," Joly said, through a huge yawn. He grinned. "I've talked up sleep so much, I'm trying to take my own advice. I'd better get back."

"Five o'clock's coming awfully soon," Courfeyrac agreed.

"Six, today," Joly corrected him as he wound a ridiculously long scarf around his neck, a look of utter bliss on his face. "They're not having us come in until seven, something to do with a staff training or something, I don't even remember. I just know it's an extra hour of sleep."

"Congratulations," Courfeyrac grinned, handing Joly his coat.

"Hang on, Joly, I'll walk over with you," Feuilly said, packing up his books. "I'm basically done for the night."

The two of them said their goodnights and left, and Courfeyrac decided that he couldn't get away with skipping his nine a.m. lab after all, so he had better start moving toward bed as well.

"Do you want that tea?" he asked Combeferre. "Or any of the soup Joly brought?"

"I'll probably have some tea, but I can get it." Courfeyrac ignored him, skipping off toward the kitchen with a level of energy no one past the age of nine should have at two in the morning, and protesting didn't seem worth the effort.

"I'm switching over to International Relations," Enjolras announced, unfolding his long limbs from the couch and cracking his neck. "I have to go get my textbook; do you want anything from the room?"

Combeferre needed to be doing the reading for his Epistemology course--and once that was done, he needed to get a good start on reviewing for the Experimental Astronomy final, which everyone in the department said was an absolute beast. But, looking at the situation realistically, he didn't think he would be able to wrap his foggy mind around either of those subjects. "My copy of American Gods? I think it's on the top shelf of the bookshelf."

"Sure."

Enjolras returned with the book at the same time as Courfeyrac brought out a gloriously scalding cup of orange-spice tea. Combeferre sipped it gingerly and wondered how something that was practically burning his mouth could feel so beautiful on his sore throat.

"Goodnight," Courfeyrac said, planting a kiss on each of their heads. "Don't stay up too late!" Enjolras, already nose-deep in his textbook, mumbled an unintelligible response.

Combeferre curled up against his end of the couch and opened the novel to his bookmark, trying to remember what had been happening when he left off in October. To his relief, the medicine Joly had given him was starting to kick in, and he felt a little less like his head was going to blow up, and a little more like a functional human being. He would read for half an hour, he decided, and then try to sleep again. In a way, it was almost a relief to be sick--to know that, although he'd neared his limit, he'd made it through the worst of yet another semester and he was doing okay.

Next semester, it would be different, he told himself for the fifth semester in a row. Next semester, he would plan ahead, he would work ahead, he would spread things out over the semester . . . he would do none of these things, he knew. Or rather, he would try to do them, but he knew he would end up overworking himself and crashing, just like he did every time. But, he thought as she sipped his tea, he would also be okay, thanks to his friends--just like he was every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to see one of the amis suggest calling Joly and, FOR ONCE, the sick person not recoil in horror. This was just going to be a one-shot but who knows I might make a series it's something I feel strongly about.
> 
> (Joly is actually a nurse in this and not a doctor because I wanted the amis to be college-age.)


	2. freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac couldn't move. This wasn't real. The way the others were rushing around seemed incomprehensible--because this couldn't be happening, this didn't happen to them, this wasn't right. In one sense he understood that everything had gone horribly wrong, that the day had changed completely. But he couldn't grasp the feelings that went along with that, couldn't believe that this was actually happening on what was supposed to be a fun day in the mountains.

In retrospect, it was a pretty stupid idea, if you thought about it.

They didn't think, obviously. It had taken the four of them nearly three hours to hike all the way up to this lake, and they were tired and at the same time on a sugar high from all the trail mix they'd eaten along the way. Probably, they would have reached the lake much sooner if it hadn't been for all the trail mix stops. But then they would've had to wait even longer for the slow group--which contained Combeferre and Feuilly and therefore had to stop to identify literally every wildflower along the side of the trail--to catch up to them.

The other group's pace was why Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet had split off from from, declaring themselves the "fast group" and charging ahead up the trail. They stopped every fifteen minutes or so for the first couple of miles to eat trail mix or make clumsy attempts at bouldering on the huge chunks of rock that lined the sides of the trail. But every time they heard the other group's voices coming up from the trail below, pride compelled them to head off again. And by the second hour of hiking, the novelty had worn off and they settled into a sort of dogged press toward the end, maybe just to get it over with more than anything (it was ironic, Courfeyrac thought, how three of the people who liked hiking the least had ended up in the fast group). Apparently, even the classic slow-and-steady approach could be trumped by fast-and-steady, because the fifteen minutes they'd expected to wait for their friends turned into twenty, then half an hour.

Even the most breathtaking of mountain vistas--a sapphire-blue lake ringed with pine-covered slopes, the sky above it cloudless and such a deep blue you wondered if you were seeing through the thinning atmosphere into space, and around it all, the snow-capped crags of the High Peaks--can get old after a while. Looking for something to do, Courfeyrac and Bahorel investigated the glacier that sloped down toward the lake (which was cool--yes, it basically just looked like a sheet of ice-crusted snow left over from a rough winter, but Combeferre had assured them that this was an honest-to-God, real live glacier left over from the Ice Age). And that was when they came up with the bright idea of sledding down it on their rain jackets.

"Combeferre was right about the rain gear after all," Grantaire said, pulling his out of his backpack.

"I wish we had those rain pants," Courfeyrac said, tying the yellow plastic coat around his waist. "It'd be like a sled built into your butt."

"I bet that's a surgery you can get," Bossuet remarked.

"Somewhere in the world," Grantaire agreed, "there's a specialist."

"It's a niche market."

"If this works, I am  _ so _ investing in a pair of those pants for the winter," Bahorel announced. "Gonna fuckin' sled down that stupid hill down to the commuter lot."

The glacier's slope was perfect--steep enough that the view looking down from the top was relatively terrifying, gentle enough that you could take your time getting ready to go down (thus letting the terror and anticipation build up a bit). The four of them stood at the top and linked arms firmly--then shuffled back and forth for a bit as they hashed out the ideal place to start from.

"Ready?" Courfeyrac asked. Bossuet nodded, tightening the grip of his arm on Courfeyrac's elbow; and on Courfeyrac's other side Grantaire and Bahorel responded "Oh hell yes" in almost the same breath.

"One . . . two . . . three!"

They sat down together, and then they were flying down the glacier, bumping over ancient lumps of ice, the wind singing in their ears. Courfeyrac screamed gleefully and Bahorel was laughing at the top of his lungs.

Almost immediately, it went wrong. Bossuet's rain jacket came untied from his waist, leaving him bumping along on the seat of his jeans. The resulting drag held him back and sent the rest of the line whipping around him like a pivot; Courfeyrac lost his grip on Bahorel's arm and the line fragmented. Bahorel and Grantaire went careening off below them while Courfeyrac clutched at the back of Bossuet's shirt to not get separated from him as well. It was at that moment that he remembered that there was an ice-cold lake at the bottom of this glacier, and they had not planned out how to stop before they got there.

Just as he was getting ready to panic, he hit something solid, and Bossuet tumbled on top of him, and everything was still. Courfeyrac lay against Bahorel's legs, staring up at the cloudless blue sky and laughing hysterically.

"Oh--my--god," Grantaire gasped. "That was amazing."

"That was the coolest thing I've ever done," Courfeyrac managed.

"So worth it," Bossuet agreed.

Bahorel's eyes glinted. "Again?"

The long climb up to the top of the ice field, with the detour to collect Bossuet's abandoned jacket, almost changed their minds. Courfeyrac's leg muscles were on fire and his heart racing as his lungs struggled to get anything out of the thin mountain air. Grantaire started to predict dire consequences (his legs were going to fall off; his lungs were going to spasm and he would die), while Bahorel laughed at him and talked about conditioning. Bahorel had actually done training hikes to get acclimated to the altitude; Grantaire and Bossuet had stayed at the cabin watching the VHS tapes of weird old cartoons they'd found in one of the closets.

When they finally reached their packs, Jehan was waiting for them, placidly picking the M&Ms out of Bahorel's trail mix, his general air of relaxation indicating he'd been there for some time.

"Hey," he greeted them. "Did you go down the glacier?"

"Yes, we slid down on our rain gear, and it was fantastic and you have to try it!" Courfeyrac gushed. "It was the most incredible thing I've ever done."

"Where are the others?" Bossuet asked, looking around.

"Back about ten, fifteen minutes. They were looking at rock formations, so they sent me up ahead to tell you not to go on to the second lake without them."

"Seccond lake? There's more hiking after this?" Grantaire's tone was comically panicked.

"Well, sure," Bahorel grinned. "It's a ten-mile hike, man; we've gone maybe four. What, did you think we were done?"

Grantaire flopped dramatically onto the ground next to his pack. "Leave me here," he groaned.

"Suit yourself," Bahorel shrugged. He looked over at the water Bossuet was gulping down, then looked down at his rain jacket. "I wonder . . . would it be faster if we got the rain gear wet?"

"I'm out," Bossuet said. He twisted around, trying to get a look at the seat of his pants, the mournful expression on his face at odds with the contortions he was getting into. "I think I tore my pants that time."

Jehan looked down the slope. "Is it fast?"

"Pretty fast," Bahorel assured him. "Definitely worth it."

"Hey wait--you have the whole set, don't you?" Courfeyrac asked. "Oh my god, you can try it with the pants!"

Jehan dug in his backpack and pulled out the blue plastic suit. The rain pants were a good two inches too short for his lanky legs, and with his flannel shirt tucked into them he looked . . . well, more ridiculous than usual, which was actually saying something for him.

"Let me just re-tie this, and I'll go down with--" Bahorel was saying when, without warning, Jehan took off toward the glacier and flung himself onto in it.

Courfeyrac's heart stopped in his throat at the speed at which Jehan flew down the ice--had they really been going that fast?--and then laughed as their friend flung his arms in the air like he was on a roller coaster. His delighted scream echoed off the mountains.

Then, in an instant, everything went wrong.

Jehan's arms flew out in shock as he went over a bump; he went spinning, out of control, arms reaching out with nothing to grab onto. He wasn't sitting up anymore, and it was starting to look a lot less like sledding and a lot more like falling. And now he was at the bottom of the glacier, where there were rocks jutting up from the ice.

On the next bump, Jehan's body bounced like a rag doll. For a terrifying moment, Courfeyrac thought he would go right into the lake. Then the slope leveled off, and Jehan slid to a stop.

And lay still.

In a second, Bahorel and Grantaire were charging down the slope, half falling themselves as they raced down the ice. Bossuet was gone, too, sprinting down the trail toward the forest they'd come out of.

Courfeyrac couldn't move. This wasn't real. The way the others were rushing around seemed incomprehensible--because this  _ couldn't _ be happening, this didn't happen to them, this wasn't right. In one sense he _understood_ that everything had gone horribly wrong, that the day had changed completely. But he couldn't grasp the feelings that went along with that, couldn't believe that this was actually happening on what was supposed to be a fun day in the mountains.

Then he saw blood on the snow, and started to panic.

"Courf!" Bahorel bellowed up at him. "First-aid kit--bottom inside pocket of my pack!"

Courfeyrac, suddenly unfrozen, flung himself on the bag, scattering its contents on the ground among the rocks. Bahorel carried the most ridiculous backpack, one of those serious hiking models with what seemed, at the moment, like thousands of pockets. Courfeyrac finally found the black canvas bag with the red cross on it, and, clutching it to his chest, skidded down the slope. He was trying to keep his gaze fixed on his feet, for safety, but the bright bloom of red on the snow below him drew his eye constantly. Ten yards from where Bahorel and Grantaire were crouched, Courfeyrac's feet flew out from underneath him, and he tumbled the last few feet, rolling into against Bahorel's solid legs for the second time in twenty minutes.

"You all right?" Bahorel asked him. Courfeyrac nodded and handed him the case, and Bahorel instantly turned his attention back to Jehan. Jehan's face was still and pale, his eyes closed; Grantaire was holding a wad of fabric to his forehead and Courfeyrac realized with a chill that it was his shirt. They hadn't wanted to wait even for him to bring the first-aid kit. Courfeyrac's legs started to tremble, and he sat back down on the ice.

"Jehan," Bahorel was saying. "Come on, man, wake up. No, don't shake him, Taire--he might have hurt his neck. We can't move him at all until Joly gets here."

_ Please, Joly, _ Courfeyrac begged silently.  _ Get here soon. _

As if in answer, he heard voices from above, and he looked up to see Joly appear at the edge of the slope, panting. Without looking, Joly stuck out an arm and started down the glacier; an instant later, Bossuet was there, grabbing onto the arm and steadying him. Joly moved quickly, almost recklessly, down the steep slope, clutching Bossuet's wrist when he got unbalanced but not checking his pace. Once, he lost his footing entirely and fell a few feet, still clinging to Bossuet; Bossuet teetered wildly, but kept his balance and dragged Joly back up to his feet.

"Have you moved him?" Joly demanded before he had even made it to Jehan's side.

"No," Bahorel assured him. "All we did was try to control the bleeding."

"Good." Joly fell to his knees alongside Jehan and gently felt along his neck. "Seems okay. Move, Grantaire, let me see under there."

Grantaire fell back, moving the blood-soaked wad of gauze his shirt had been replaced with so Joly could examine Jehan. For an instant, Courfeyrac saw the huge gash that cut across his friend's forehead; then the blood welled up again, obscuring the cut. But the jagged image was still stamped on his sight, like the afterimage of a bolt of lightning.

Joly held out his hand for the gauze and gently dabbed at the cut. "It's not too bad," he sighed. "Just bleeding a lot. Courfeyrac, there's more gauze in my bag."

Courfeyrac stood up and tried to open the backpack still strapped to Joly's back, but his hands were shaking so violently that Bahorel gently edged him aside.

"Here," he said, handing the first-aid kid down to Joly. "What else do you need?"

"I need him to wake up," Joly said quietly, dropping his head.

Bossuet stepped up silently behind him and squeezed his shoulder. Joly took a deep, shaky breath. "Okay, I need water. And I need somebody's shirt or something."

As Joly carefully blotted off the gash after rinsing it with his water bottle, Jehan's eyelids fluttered, then opened. "Hey," he murmured. Off to the side, Bahorel sank to the ground with a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

"Hey, Jehan," Joly said. He laid a pad of gauze gently over the cut; almost at once, it blossomed red. "Do you know where you are?"

"On ice," Jehan said, fuzzily.

Joly laughed, a fluttery little sound. "Well, you're not wrong."

"Wha' happened?"

"You fell down the glacier. We're hiking at Green Lake, do you remember that?"

"I remember Enjolras casting asb--aber--apsp--fuck it--on my staff," Jehan said slowly. "Too tall for a walking stick."

"Good enough," Joly said. "How's your vision?"

"Full of sun."

"Bahorel, c'mere." The big man stepped up so his shadow fell over Jehan's eyes. "How about now?"

"Still full of lights," Jehan said, a little dazedly. "But yes, I can see."

"Can you move your fingers?" As if just now remembering he had hands, Jehan glanced down toward them. "No, don't move your head just yet," Joly said urgently. "Just your fingers. Good, how about your toes? Can you bend your legs?" As Jehan complied, Joly sat back, sighing in relief. "No evidence of a neck injury."

"What'd I do to my knee?" Jehan asked, wincing as he continued to try out his legs.

"You fell down a mountain, ya big idiot," Bahorel told him.

"Oh. Yeah."

"Okay, let's try sitting up," Joly instructed. "I'll be able to finish with your head more easily that way, and I want to get you up and moving as soon as possible, because it's four miles to the nearest car--and you're going to be fine, but none of us are going to be able to breathe easy until we get you to a hospital, so let's get started, okay?" With Bahorel's help, he maneuvered Jehan up to a sitting position; Bossuet tucked himself in behind him, sitting back-to-back with Jehan so the injured man could lean against him. "Still okay?" Joly asked.

"Yeah." Jehan's voice was faint, but at least he was still answering.  _ You're going to be fine, Joly said _ , Courfeyrac reminded himself.  _ He's going to be okay. _

Joly quickly finished wrapping the gash across his forehead and gently sponged away the blood from Jehan's nose and cheeks with the remaining clean areas of Grantaire's shirt.

"Here, drink some water." He handed him the bottle. "And we need to get you something warm to put on; you're doing good but shock is definitely a risk. Oh--I know!" He shrugged out of his backpack and rummaged around in the bottom of it, pulling out what looked like a small, square package wrapped in foil. He shook it out, and it became an emergency blanket, which he draped around Jehan's shoulders. "You're a knight in shining armor now," he said.

"No, an astronaut," Jehan corrected him gravely. "I think this is made out of plastic. It's definitely more like the future, at any rate."

"An astronaut, then," Joly said, pushing up the leg of Jehan's jeans. "You're going to have a fantastic bruise," he said, after a minute of gentle prodding at his knee, "but I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Does anything else hurt?"

Jehan considered for a minute. "No, not really."

"Okay, good. Can you stand up, do you think?"

"I think so?"

Bahorel and Bossuet half pulled, half lifted Jehan to his feet and wedged themselves under his arms. Jehan swayed slightly, but stayed upright, grinning a little proudly at the accomplishment.

"Good, awesome," Joly encouraged. "Now just . . . up the glacier?"

Slowly, Bahorel and Bossuet picked their way up the field of ice, Joly hovering just behind. Grantaire and Courfeyrac brought up the rear, with Courfeyrac carrying Joly's backpack and Grantaire clutching his blood-sodden shirt in front of him.

"I can't believe we were so fucking stupid," Grantaire kept saying, talking fast in a high, breathless patter. "Who the hell looks at a sheet of ice like that and says 'yes this is  _ definitely _ a thing I want to throw myself down--no ropes, no fucking guardrail at the bottom, nothing!' It's fucking suicidal, that's what it is. It's like, what are we, fucking twelve?" 

His feet slipped and he scrabbled wildly at the snow, leaving a spot of reddish-orange behind where he's caught himself with the hand that held the bloody shirt. "Fucking mountains, fucking hiking, fucking  _ nature _ \--there's a reason why we've evolved to have houses and laptops and Hot Pockets, man, maybe a billion years ago we were cut out for the whole living-in-the-wilds thing, striding over mountains, carving out a living from the hills, all that shit. But we're a different species now, and if we knew what was good for us we'd steer clear of anything with actual dirt involved. We just kill ourselves trying to fuck around with this shit." He babbled on, and Courfeyrac let him, not sure he could say anything yet without bursting into tears. 

They'd fallen behind the others a little, their unsteady feet slipping on the ice, but caught up on the last bit, reaching the top alongside Jehan, who was sagging a bit between his supports, but still triumphant. Enjolras, whose restless demeanor said he'd been pacing the whole time, shifted from foot to foot; Combeferre had a water bottle out and was offering Jehan a drink.

"Great, that was so good," Joly said as they lowered Jehan to sit on a rock. (Just twenty minutes ago, Courfeyrac thought numbly, he was sitting there stealing all Bahorel's M&Ms.) "Jehan, you're doing awesome. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Jehan answered faintly.

"That was the hardest bit; from here out, it's easy."

"Yeah, just four fucking miles down the mountain," Bahorel rumbled.

"Shut up," Joly told him. "Jehan, don't listen to him, it's going to be fine. The trail's wide and most of it's not rocky at all, and if you get tired just say so and we can carry you--they can carry you." He corrected. "Some of us are shrimps and somewhat useless in that department. I think Bahorel, Enjolras, and Combeferre are the only ones really tall enough to match your height. Well, and Bossuet; he's close enough, I think. And it'll be good to have four, that way everyone gets a rest."

"We'll take the packs," Feuilly volunteered from where he sat on the ground, packing the last of the gear Courfeyrac had scattered back into Bahorel's pack. "Those of us who are shorter. We can each carry two or three, and that way the rest of you get a real rest in between carrying him."

"Sounds good," Bahorel said. He was up on his feet, bouncing slightly with restlessness. "Are we ready, then?"

"Jehan?" Joly asked. He nodded, a little glassy-eyed. "Okay, let's go." Bahorel and Enjolras helped Jehan to his feet, draping his arms over their shoulders.

"You've got a perfectly matched set of horses there." Grantaire motioned with a shaky hand at the contrast between Bahorel's broad shoulders and Enjolras's wiry limbs. The two were the tallest of the group, but had about as different builds as was physically possible. Jehan slumped between them, looking like some kind of mutant scarecrow from an old B movie, with his blue plastic pants and flannel shirt, and the silvery emergency blanket around his shoulders. His face was pale and he still looked a little dazed, but his smile was that same old Jehan smile--half intimate secrets with friends, half awe at the wonders of the universe. Courfeyrac's stomach twisted as he realized just how lucky he was to be seeing that smile again.

The three of them set off slowly, Jehan's feet only half touching the ground. Joly, Combeferre, and Bossuet followed after, as Feuilly gathered up everyone's backpacks and started redistributing their contents into three packs for the remaining hikers.

"Grantaire," he said, interrupting Grantaire's distracted soliloquoy about body types. "Here's an extra shirt. I think it's Combeferre's? He  _ would _ bring a change of clothes."

Grantaire just blinked at him, then down at his bare chest. "Oh. Yeah, thanks." He took it, dropping the blood-stained one on a rock, and pulled it over his head. "Should we save the old one? Personally, I don't care that much about Retaliation Agenda--I mean, they had a sort of unique sound, even if their lyrics were incomprehensible bullshit trying to be artsy. But I didn't like them enough that I'm going to still wear the shirt--and that stuff is  _ not _ coming out, I speak from experience here, that's a lost cause. But Jehan is probably going to want it, don't you think? That morbid shit is exactly the kind of thing he goes for. He saved his wisdom teeth when he had them out, did you know that? He's got them in a box on his bookshelf, it's fucking creepy."

"Feuilly, can I get a couple extra water bottles?" Joly trotted back up to them. "Just in case we get separated from you guys. Bahorel and Enj decided to just carry him--not that anything's wrong, it was just easier, with the terrain--and we're moving pretty fast. And I'm the only one with a backpack."

Joly loaded up his pack and turned to catch up to the new fast group, then paused. "Before I go, I think some hugs are needed." He turned to Grantaire and wrapped his arms around him. Grantaire stiffened for a second, then squeezed back, burying his face in Joly's neck. Joly rubbed his back, murmuring something inaudible into his ear.

When Grantaire let go, Joly turned to Feuilly, giving him a tight but quick hug. "Thanks for taking care of the packs and stuff; it's a big help."

Then he opened his arms to Courfeyrac, who gratefully fell into the hug, wrapping his arms tightly around Joly's skinny frame. "Okay?" Joly murmured in his ear. Courfeyrac nodded against Joly's shoulder; the lump in his throat wouldn't let him speak.

"Jehan's going to be fine," Joly assured him. "Everything's going to be okay." He pushed back, holding onto Courfeyrac's arms and meeting his eyes. Courfeyrac nodded again, smiling tearily. Joly squeezed his shoulders and then let him go.

"Thanks again for carrying everything," he called back, jogging off after the fast group. "We'll see you at the bottom!"

"Okay. We got this," Grantaire said shakily. He lifted up the pack Feuilly had prepared for him and groaned. "Why did we even bring all this shit?"  (Feuilly was decent enough not to tell him, "for emergencies," though Courfeyrac could tell he was thinking it.)

"We'll take it slow," Feuilly promised. "It'll be all right."

"Yeah," Courfeyrac said, finally getting past the lump in his throat. "It will."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um yes, this is going to be a multi-chapter thing, i've decided, although the pieces aren't really connected and aren't even necessarily in chronological order. I just wasn't happy stopping at just one "joly is not a shitty doctor" drabble.
> 
> The point of this whole drabble is that I really strongly believe that Joly would actually be fantastic in a crisis. My headcanon is that he can be silly when appropriate and nervous at times, but when shit happens he snaps into doctor mode and handles everything fantastically. So I wanted to explore that.
> 
> (This is based on a real-life experience, by the way. The person who went down by himself and wiped out was fine, although he has an impressive scar. So Jehan ends up fine too.)


	3. Chapter 3

Feuilly groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring up at the bottom of Combeferre's bunk. The mattress above him was old, with a floral pattern that looked like the wallpaper of a 50's kitchen and some greenish stains on the top right corner. Feuilly wondered what the stains were from--some kind of mutant mildew strain that went green instead of black, maybe, or bloodstains that had reacted with the cleaning product the frantic murderer had used to try to scrub them off. Or, more likely, some kind of cheap alcohol pumped full of enough food dye and sugar to trick eighteen-year-olds into buying it. That was probably it.

Really, Feuilly couldn't have cared less what the mattress above him was stained with, as long it didn't drip onto his face while he slept. But puzzling over the mystery was more interesting than everything else he could do.

Which was nothing.

No screens--no computer, no TV, no phone--and no reading. No homework. Nothing that challenged the brain in any way; when you hurt your brain, you had to let it rest if you wanted it to get better. And no strenuous physical activity, either. Walking a little was okay, but running was out. Working was definitely off the table, since it was how he'd gotten the concussion in the first place.

He'd fought the doctor on it, down at the university's health center, where Combeferre had forced him to go after he came home from work nauseous and with his ears still ringing an hour after the shelf had fallen on his head.

"No way," he'd said, when the doctor delivered the instructions. "I can't not do anything for days."

The doctor smiled at him like he was a little child. "I know it sounds boring, but you'll make it through. Think of it as a break--I'm sure you're about ready for one."

"No, you don't get it," Feuilly said, stopping himself at the last minute from shaking his head emphatically--the last time he'd tried that, it had ended with him throwing up--and settling for raising his voice instead. "I have a scholarship, I have to keep my GPA up or I lose it. I have a calculus midterm on Monday and I'm already pushing a C in that class, and a . . . another assignment for my literature class that I have to work on"--the fact that he couldn't remember what the assignment was, despite the fact that they'd been talking about it all week, scared him a little, but he pushed on--"and--and so much other stuff. And I can't skip work, they fired someone two weeks ago for taking off to take care of her sick kid. Everyone won't let me just drop everything for a few days and pick it back up when I feel better; that's not the way the world works." He felt like he was pleading, although he wasn't sure what for. He didn't need her to take back her instructions; she couldn't  _ make  _ him follow them, after all.

This time, she looked at him like an adult. "Nevertheless, if you want to get better quickly, this is what you need to do. It's your choice--you can take a few days off and give your brain a chance to really heal, so you can get back to normal faster. Or you can keep going as normal and drag your recovery out to several weeks or months instead of several days, as well as risking permanent damage. That option will also make your symptoms worse, including concentration and memory problems, which will likely affect your academic performance."

She was right, of course. There wasn't any way out of it--as much as he wished the world were set up that way, with every problem having an easy solution if you only looked and wished hard enough for it. Feuilly sighed in defeat, gingerly nodding his acceptance.

"We can give you an official doctor's note to give to your employer and professors," the doctor added.

"Thanks," Feuilly muttered. "That'll be helpful."

He'd managed to stick to the no screens-no reading-no work regime for approximately twelve hours. Combeferre had come back to the room around lunchtime the first day to find Feuilly doggedly working his way through his calculus notes, stopping every fifteen minutes to close his eyes and let the headache and nausea die down. Combeferre had brought out the same arguments the doctor had and had managed to convince Feuilly to go back to total rest mode (although it was the threat of sending their friends to check up on him periodically that was more convincing than the lecture).

But it had been two days now, and Feuilly didn't know how much more rest he could take. He couldn't sleep any more. Listening to music, even at a low volume, made his head hurt after more than half an hour. He'd already gone for a walk. He'd spent half the morning watching a beetle try to find its way out of a cracked-open window, crawling in endless blind circles around the edge of the pane, taking off only to smack into the opposite side of the glass just shy of the gap.

And the whole time, the textbooks piled high on his desk sat there staring at him, reminding him of everything he needed to be doing--all the studying time slipping through his fingers, all the assignments that were building up (his professors had been great about giving him extensions, but all that meant was he would have to do double the work when he finally could get back to it).

And so much was riding on it all! If he couldn't get the grades he needed, he'd lose his scholarship, which meant dropping out of school, which meant the loans he'd already taken out would come due, which meant he'd have to go back to working retail during the day and waiting tables at night like he'd done those two hellish years in between high school and college. Only this time there wouldn't be an end date in sight, because he already had enough debt on his plate to tie him down for at least twenty years at minimum wage.

Thinking about it all, Feuilly couldn't just  _ lie there _ any longer. He got up and got his physics textbook from his desk and brought it back to his bed, hoping that if he read lying down he could trick his mind into thinking he was still resting. He would just read one chapter. Thirty-five pages, that wasn't too much.

It felt so good to be doing something productive again that he read through five pages before he realized he didn't remember what the first page was even about.

Flipping back, he started the chapter again, more slowly this time. He brought out every strategy that had gotten him through high school--predicting, visualizing, identifying key words, checking understanding after each paragraph. His head started aching again, the pain like a vise at his temples, but he pushed on, running his finger under each line of text to drag his eyes along with it.

It wasn't working, the words weren't making sense, weren't resolving into meaningful information--and he didn't know if it was the effects of the concussion or if it was stress or if the material was just getting too hard for him. And the more anxious he got over it, the more times he had to go back over the same phrase, mouthing the words, trying to get somewhere with them despite the fuzziness and pain still beating at his temples.

A knock at his open door brought him back to himself. Glancing up to see Joly standing in the doorway, he fumbled to close and hide the book before realizing that it was useless and a little bit pathetic, since Joly had already obviously seen what he was doing; he was acting like a child caught misbehaving, trying to hide the evidence. He felt his cheeks get hot.

But instead of starting to lecture, Joly just asked, "Can I come in?"

Feuilly nodded, and Joly kicked off his shoes at the door and came to sit next to Feuilly on the bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Did Ferre send you to check up on me?" Feuilly said; his tone hovered somewhere between teasing and resentful, and he wasn't sure himself how he meant it to come out.

"Nope, this is one-hundred-percent-pure med student curiosity," Joly said cheerfully. "I don't have any real patients yet, just textbook case studies, so I have to follow my friends around when they get sick or hurt."

"That's why you're friends with us," Feuilly laughed in spite of himsef.

"Of course; why do you think I'm so close with Bossuet?" Joly grinned. "Now. Symptoms. Are you feeling any better than yesterday?"

"Not much," Feuilly admitted, rolling onto his back. He could easily see through Joly's pretense of simple fascination with medical problems, but, as much as he hated himself for it, it felt kind of good to complain a little. "I feel okay as long as I'm just lying here doing nothing. But that's stressing me out; I can't  _ afford  _ to--like, literally, I can't. I need to be working, or doing homework, or something, or I'll get too far behind to catch up later. But when I try to read my head starts hurting again, and I can't make sense of the words. I can read the same paragraph five times and I just don't get anything out of it."

Joly nodded. "Difficulty understanding and retaining complex information is definitely a common concussion symptom--I mean, it's a  _ brain _ injury, after all. But it'll get better as your brain heals, and you'll be completely back to normal soon."

"I know," Feuilly said, unwilling to admit even to Joly that he'd been doubting it. He took a deep breath and told himself that Joly was right, that he knew what he was talking about and Feuilly should just trust him. Feuilly hadn't lost whatever temporary magic was getting him through school; it was just the concussion.

"You will," Joly insisted. "You may feel slow and confused, but it really is just a symptom. Trust me, once you get better this stuff will come easy to you again."

"How long will it take?" Feuilly felt his cheeks grow hot at the plaintive note in his voice, and tried to make it into a joke. "Being a useless lump might be good for your health, but it's super boring."

"It depends. It could be a few days, it could be a week or more. It'll be sooner the more you can rest your brain."

Feuilly sighed in frustration. "I know." He tossed the physics textbook toward the end of the bed; it teetered on the edge for a minute, then flopped onto the floor. Feuilly didn't bother picking it up.

"Are you still feeling nauseous at all?" Joly asked.

"No," Feuilly answered. Were they going to go through a checklist of all the concussion symptoms? Maybe Joly really was here out of medical curiosity, after all.

"Good." Joly grabbed his hands and pulled him up off the bed. "Because we're going to make soup. That's something you're allowed to do, and it's productive because  _ soup _ . We can make a huge batch and freeze it in tupperware, and have food for all of finals week." He grinned. "Don't worry, I'll read the recipe."

A slow smile spread across Feuilly's face. "Okay."

They settled on two soups--potato and butternut squash--and, after stopping by Bossuet's room for his car keys and his stained, faded copy of the curried butternut squash soup recipe, they made a grocery run. Joly insisted on Feuilly waiting at the dorm for him to bring Bossuet's old Ford up from the parking lot--his spot was way out in Q lot, nearly a mile away--but at least he didn't try to convince Feuilly to ride in the cart with the vegetables. They ended up buying apple cider, too, because Feuilly wasn't ready to let go of fall, even with snow predicted for later that weekend, and a bag of huge marshmallows, because they were only a dollar, and why not?

As they started to cook, the smell of curry spread through the hall--and before long, inevitably, Grantaire wandered in, sniffing appreciatively. He peered into the pot of soup, then flung himself down at the table where Feuilly was sitting (at Joly's insistence), peeling potatoes.

"God, this semester needs to be  _ over _ already," he groaned. "My professor--the ridiculous one, Rivero-Torres--just gave us an extra assignment for next Monday that wasn't even in the syllabus; this  _ on top of _ the eight-page paper we have for the fucking day before Thanksgiving break. I mean, why do we even have papers in the first place, I thought that was part of the deal--major in art, don't have to do any of the  _ writing _ and  _ reading _ shit." Feuilly's stomach twisted, thinking of all the work piled up on his desk. He really should be getting something done; maybe it wouldn't count as screen time if he closed his eyes while he typed . . .

Grantaire cracked his neck and plowed on. "And then I have that group project for Anderson, and every person in my group, myself included, is a total slacker. And I haven't even  _ started _ thinking about the final project for--"

"Nope," Joly said loudly, "nope, nope, nope!" He draped himself around Grantaire, somehow managing to combine a hug and a hand clapped over his mouth. "Tonight, there will be no stressing about academics in this lounge; if you need to vent, kindly step down the hall to room 206, where Courfeyrac will be happy to listen to your complaint."

"Aw, come on, man, I--"

"Look," Joly said. "This is a homework-free zone. If you want to complain about the work that you're going to leave to the last minute anyway, you can go somewhere where it won't stress other people out--or you can stay here with us and relax for a few minutes and eat some delicious soup."

Grantaire mumbled under his breath for the next minute or so, but none of it was actually comprehensible--and when Joly put a bowl of soup in front of him his grumbling cut off instantly. "Real soup," he sighed, closing his eyes and slowly slurping up a spoonful.

"Gross," Joly giggled, swatting him with a towel.

"No, man, soup that's this good demands to be slurped," Grantaire protested, exaggeratedly slurping the next spoonful. "This is fantastic. This is the platonic ideal of a pumpkin soup. This is if all the pumpkin soups in the world got together and elected a leader, it would be this soup. And then all the carrot soups come to pay tribute and this soup starts an empire that slowly takes over the world until all that's left is curried pumpkin--"

"It's squash, actually," Feuilly interrupted.

Grantaire stopped mid-ramble, wrongfooted, and covered by taking another big spoonful of soup. "Well, whatever it is, it's great," he said, with a little less irony than before. "It's nice to eat something real, you know; I feel like everything in the caf comes frozen or in a can."

"I have a friend who used to work there," Joly called from the kitchen. "But, um, actually I don't know how they make any of their food; I wouldn't let her tell me. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to eat there ever again."

"Ignorance is bliss," Grantaire agreed.

As the evening went on, others stopped by. Bahorel stuck his head in on his way out the door to wrestling practice and offered anything short of his soul for them to save a helping for him; Enjolras and Courfeyrac came in and argued about economic theories over bowls of potato soup until Joly judged the conversation too close to academics and invoked the no homework rule, at which point they cheerfully transfered their argument to music instead. Bossuet came by to collect the recipe (a treasured hand-me-down from one of his mothers which he was extremely protective of because he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost it) and pronounced their reproduction of it not _quite_ as good as his mother's, but definitely a respectable showing.

But even with all the portions they were sharing out, Joly and Feuilly still ended the night with a stack of individual-portion-size containers of leftovers. Feuilly smiled as he made space in the freezer. Everything he had to do still weighed heavy on his mind . . . but maybe tonight hadn't been so useless after all.

 


End file.
